


Beautiful Mourning

by SoulfullyInked



Category: X Files
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mourning, Other, Third Party POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:35:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfullyInked/pseuds/SoulfullyInked
Summary: Mulder never wants to forget...FINISHED!!!!!!





	Beautiful Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place later in the series, probably around the time of Trust No 1.

I see two kinds of people in my line of work, those celebrating life and those celebrating death.

The former? It's always something trivial, doing something just for the sake of doing it, commemorating some joyous event or creating the guise of a personal bible. Y'all lifers bore me to death, there ain't nothing original about none of y'all.

"Make it colorful, make it bright, make it happy!"

Blow me. I'll give you all the sunshine and unicorns you want, just don't come bitching back to me when it don't mean squat to you in a couple years.

Now, the ones coming to me with tales of death and destruction? Those are where I get my jollies. Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm not some sort of sick freak, I have morals and ethics just like everyone else. It's just that there's an honesty about despair and sorrow that lets you see people for who they truly are.

That's why when this dude came in last week and laid a couple grand down on my counter I dropped everything I was doing. I can tell just by the way they walk in, life or death.

Obnoxious and annoying. Or pleasant and grateful.

Bro didn't say much, he didn't have to. His face, the way he moved, said it all. He'd been shattered, plunged into a world of despair darker than any man has a right to. His soul was decaying right before my eyes. He was broken, just a shell of a man standing in front of me.

Outwardly he was just as battered-looking. Now, I ain't no fruit-loop, but he was a looker. Too emo, too angsty to be a pretty boy, but if I was a woman I'd fuck him. He's tall and lanky, built like a runner, coulda been a wideout for the 'Skins. A pain that I can't even begin to describe reflected back to me from those haunted green-hazel eyes of his. Made me shudder a little on the inside.

Spooky, man. Real fucking spooky.

Dude was polite though, soft-spoken. Smart as hell. I liked him immediately. He told me the gist of what he wanted, took a vial of black powder from around his neck but didn't elaborate on the details. His hand shook as he placed it gently in my palm, as if it was the last vestige of life he had left. I get the feeling it was, but I didn't pry, I never pry. His voice began to break as he talked to me, so I doubt he coulda told me a story anyways. I felt the numbness take over as we set up our next meeting. Before he left I took my measurements, the lifelessness oozing from his body gave me the chills just standing next to the guy. He thanked me again, gave me his business card and skulked back out the way he came in.

Brother was the most-devastated human being I met in, well, probably ever. Everything was paid for in full. I have complete freedom after symbology. I pride myself on being able to size-up any man after the first couple minutes, give him what he wants. This guy's heart was dissected open on his sleeve. He's seen and experienced things that would make the hardest of men's balls shrivel outta fear. I got something special for this dude...

Xxxxxx

Today's the big day. I ain't got anything else to do at work today 'cept this. It's the finest work I've ever created. I hope it brings closure to my man.

He's sitting in the chair across the cubicle from me. He's more gaunt and pale than the first time I met him. If it was possible to look anymore like the living dead than him, dude needs an Oscar. His handsome face is slightly sunken with dull, bloodshot eyes and deep purple bags. Looks like he ain't slept in weeks. To me it looks like he's been weeping nonstop.

Nothin' wrong with that. I've boo-hooed my eyes out more than once. Although it's apparent that I've had a cooshy life in comparison.

I hand him back the vial he'd given me last week. I'd protected it like it was the most precious piece of art ever created. I guessed at the contents, ain't the first time I done this. Kinda what I'm known for.

As I said, tales of death and destruction drive my work.

Those same quaking hands of his take the vial with such a gentleness that I'm grateful my sausage fingers didn't break it. His hands, both with bruised and scabby knuckles...like he'd been punching them through walls...put the vial to his equally chapped lips. His voice was a hoarse fraction of what I'd heard the week before. "I missed you. I love you," he croaked to the container. It was the saddest I've ever heard those words said.

The melancholy coming off this dude is palpable. I've met mourning parents, weeping lovers, grieving pet owners. None can hold a candle to the devastated lump of a man sitting before me.

Not a lump. He's anything but lumpy. Dude's got a body that puts my bike-riding, beer-guzzling ass to shame. He's covered in scars though, at least from the waist up. Looks like he's been shot more than once, possibly stabbed and mauled. I ask if he wants me to fix those, to hide them.

He's still clutching onto that vial, whispers to it. He looks at me with those soulless, lifeless eyes. They ask me to leave the marred flesh untouched. Her hands would soothe away the wounds that caused those scars, he wanted to remember them that way.

I'm used to all sorts of squirmy-wormies in my shop, big athletic, macho guys are the worst. My man here didn't so much as twitch, he just stared off into space. I could feel his soul crumbling. The constant buzz in the background was the only noise. Normally I have some tunes blaring while I work. Not this time. I get the feeling that I'm never gonna forget this dude.

Halfway through we take a break. My back teeth are floating and I need a smoke. I'm sure my brutha over there needs to stretch them lanky legs of his. I wash up, clean him up and scram away from this oppressive depression for a few.

Five minutes later and he's doubled over in his chair, agonizing sobs coming out from the hands over his face. He's rocking back and forth. I'm actually worried that he's going to keel over right there. This is the most gut-wrenching whimpering I've ever heard. My heart breaks for the guy. I can only hope that when we're done that he can begin to heal. Although I doubt he's ever gonna fully recover, his entire world has been shattered.

He apologizes, asks me to keep going. He still don't say anything while I'm working my way down his left arm. He just holds his vial against his heart, tears still streaming down his face. I'm trying to lighten the mood by complimenting how everything is looking. No response. I didn't expect one, so I keep on in silence.

It's been a few hours and I'm almost done. This piece is gorgeous, it's deeply saddening, but it's gorgeous. Despite the empty shell of a man wearing it, the macabre beauty has made this my all-time favorite. I'm putting my finishing touches around his wrist when he asks in that broken, raspy voice of his if there's enough ink left for his hand.

There is and this time my curiosity gets the best of me. I can't help but ask why?

"She died while holding this hand. I failed her, I failed us. I don't know if I'll ever find the men responsible, but I'll never let go of Dana Scully ever again."

**Author's Note:**

> While I purposely left the subject open for interpretation, this story is told from the perspective of a tattoo artist. Below is the link for the piece Mulder was given. I saw it several years ago and saved it for future inspiration.
> 
>  
> 
> http://labornthyn.deviantart.com/art/Ouroboros-of-Life-and-Death-86521970


End file.
